


Jokers All The Way Down

by Nny



Series: 2019 Valentine's Requests [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bucky Barnes's Trigger Words, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 21:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17795264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: It was dumb, probably, given the way that the rest of his life has shaped up, that he’d thought he’d get that fairytale moment. That he’d thought someone would say his words and he’d just know.





	Jokers All The Way Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ClaraxBarton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/gifts).



Clint was still bleeding sluggishly when he made his way down to the basement, the only place in the tower with the structural integrity to support the Hulk’s cell. He scratched at the black words on his forearm as he walked, his footsteps echoing back from the concrete walls, and he knew the burning sensation was psychosomatic but that didn’t stop him wanting to claw them off his skin.

It was dumb, probably, given the way that the rest of his life has shaped up, that he’d thought he’d get that fairytale moment. That he’d thought someone would say his words and he’d just  _know_  - or maybe he’d go first, get to watch the wonder dawning in their eyes before they finally spoke the words he’d known for as long as he’d been alive. Maybe he’d thought of it as compensation, some way that the universe could make up for the hand it’d dealt him.

Turned out that Clint’s life was jokers all the way down.

*

Steve had dragged them into his quest. What else had they had to do? Clint had sure as hell been out of a job, and his very specific skillset kinda limited the career paths he could take. So he’d trailed around after Captain America and the Black Widow, searching for any signs of Steve’s missing buddy, staying in shitty motels up and down the country, taking in way too much second-hand smoke from Hydra bases that were still smouldering.

It was a nice bonding experience, when it came down to it. Ever changing scenery, occasional peril, regular threats of death from two of the prettiest people he knew. It didn’t quite make up for the fact that he’d been unwittingly working for Hydra for the better part of his career, and there was a therapist’s couch somewhere with his name written all over it, but it was nice to think that he could maybe help save someone again.

*

The Soldier stood square in the harsh light of the cell, his empty gray eyes fixed a little to the left of Clint. He hadn’t moved much since he’d woken up, taking a second to assess the limits of his world and then pushing to his feet, standing with his hands behind his back, like he was waiting for someone to give him orders. It made every hair on Clint’s damn body stand on end.

There was no question that he was the Soldier now, even with the faded ball cap, the red henley, the ragged jeans. There was no wonder that he’d been halfway between a nightmare and a fairytale for an improbable number of years.

“I’m sorry.”

He didn’t move, wasn’t visibly moved by Clint’s words, but after a moment his eyes snapped to meet Clint’s. There was the barest line between his dark brows.

“For what?”

For a second there was only the gentle drip of Clint’s blood falling from the ends of his fingers and hitting the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “for saying your words.”

*

They’d been in Poughkeepsie, of all places, when they’d found him. When  _Steve_  had found him and - judging by the rips and the bloodstains and his missing front tooth - had gently persuaded him to come back to where they were staying.

Bucky’d been surly and monosyllabic, had refused to interact with anyone but Steve for the first hour they had him there. He’d grudgingly answered Steve’s questions, the details sparing, and he’d looked at Natasha and Clint sidelong but wouldn’t speak to them direct.

Clint had been fine with it. He’d been fixing the fletching on one of his arrows, whistling absently between his teeth, and listening closely to the one word answers in case this ended in some kinda test. He looked up during one of the more protracted silences to find Steve clenching his jaw, the muscles there ticking, and Bucky staring out of the window with the sunlight gilding the lines of his face.

“Damn, you’re pretty for a dead guy,” Clint said, without thinking, and Steve’s mouth dropped open.

And then Clint’s apparent soulmate had tried to stab him in the neck.

*

“You didn’t even say all the words.”

It was a stupid thing to fixate on, but it was important to him in the way of things you cling to in the darkest times. Clint’s words had always looked a little odd, uneven, like his name at the end was an uncertain addition, written in a very different hand.  _You’re my mission_  was in block capitals, heavy and certain; there’d been no mistaking the words when they were said. After that there’d been stabbing and fighting and bleeding, but Clint thought -

He just thought he would’ve remembered, that was all. If his soulmate had said his name.

*

(Hydra had programmed him. When they’d found the words curled around his right thigh, they’d told him what those words would trigger, what they were going to make him do.

It was the first time Bucky had known they were breaking him, right down beyond his bones.)

*

Eventually someone had made Clint leave. He was a little weak from blood loss, by that point, so he wasn’t sure entirely just who it’d been. He’d been stitched up and put on bed rest, and he’d still ended every day exactly the same way, sitting cross-legged and telling stories to a motionless man in a big glass box.

Clint wasn’t sure what he thought the point of it would be. He wasn’t even sure if he thought it’d help. It just felt essential, felt like something he needed to do, and somewhere he needed to be; he felt like even his incomplete soulbond was tugging him closer and drawing him in.

It was easy to imagine things, as time went on. It was easy to persuade himself that it meant something when the Soldier shifted a little closer to the glass, when he eventually sat in a reflection of Clint. It was easy to pretend that the little quirks at the corner of his mouth were signs of personality, signs that maybe he was getting a little better, was maybe returning to himself a little more.

But it always  _was_  pretending, it was always a fairytale he was telling himself, so he didn’t expect Steve to drag him down the stairs at something close to a run and plant him in front a man who was almost unfamiliar in the animation in his face.

“Clint?” Bucky said.


End file.
